Starting All Over
by maytheoddsPN12
Summary: In the months following the war, Katniss must confront her inner demons, as well as developing feelings for Peeta. Together, they must negotiate the difficulties of learning to trust and love again.
1. Chapter 1

At one point in my life, everything was in order. There was a reason for my each and every action, a purpose for living. Hunting and trading game supplemented my family's diet. Volunteering to enter the Hunger Games in my sister's place was meant to keep her safe, to prevent her from suffering a cruel death at the hands of the Capitol. Everything I did, everything I tried to do, was for the sake of protecting my family. It was to ensure our survival. But ever since the war ended and I came back home to District Twelve, I've realized that I failed at my job. My role as a guardian broke down long ago, and now I'm stuck here as a prisoner in my mind, struggling with the fact that chaos has erupted and nothing is in order anymore.

When I got back to the district, I wasn't sure what to think or what to do with myself. Fresh off a murder trial, I found myself slowly going insane. Wishing I could die. My mistakes that I'd made as a symbol of the rebellion were too painful to live with. I saw reminders of those mistakes when I took my first prolonged glance at the ruins that were once the Hob and the town square; the Seam and the Justice Building. It's all gone now, and I know that it's my fault.

Look at the bodies here that line the streets. By now, they've disintegrated almost completely. Whatever hasn't turned to dust or ash is slowly decomposing on the side of the dirt road, waiting to be wheel-barrowed off into a mass grave. I passed by the piles of ash on my one and only visit to the center of the district, not fully realizing that as I breathed in and out, I was taking particles of the people I once knew into my body. Proof, once again, that they died for my cause and are allowing me to live on. The ghosts of the dead live in my mind, circulate through my bloodstream, become every part of me. I can't shake the thought of them.

How do you feel alive when you're surrounded by death?

I thought maybe that's what turned me insane. Maybe I was unable to handle the bleakness of death that permeated my home. The pungent smell of death and suffering still taints the air, fills my mouth with an acrid taste. Like burning hair and flesh. It makes my stomach turn every time I step outside. I'd just as soon stay inside my house in the Victor's Village, far away from the feeble reconstruction efforts.

I don't want to help. I've done enough damage to this country already, so I doubt that people around here consider me an asset to recovery. I'm only good for change.

Change. It's funny that I'm so adept at sparking a rebellion in the hearts of my people, but that I can't bring myself to change my own ways. I hide away like a coward because I don't want to face that fact quite yet.

But seeing Peeta Mellark's face outside my house today was the most painful thing for me to face since I've come home. There he was, kneeling in the dirt, planting primrose bushes outside my window. "For her," he'd said, as if that was going to make me feel better. As if that reminder of Prim was going to make me snap out of my depression. I couldn't even fake a smile or thank him for his efforts. I was shaken to my core.

What did he expect from me? To throw my arms around his neck, sobbing uncontrollably from the joy of seeing him again? Or to get down on my knees and beg him for forgiveness? No, I'll never forgive Peeta for the things he's done. I can't shake the resentment I felt towards him during our time in District Thirteen. The horrible things he said to me can never be taken back, and I don't think that I'll ever fully recover from them. I don't care if he was hijacked. I don't care if he was made to suffer. I hate him with every fiber of my being for hurting me, for ceasing to be the boy with the bread. And I hate him for saving my life when I didn't deserve it.

It's not about Peeta anymore, I realize. It's something more than the residual anger I felt when he stepped on my nightlock pill and prevented me from taking my life. It's something more powerful than when I spoke to my mother for the first time in months on the phone, hearing her tell me that she didn't think she could bear to see me again, because I reminded her too much of my sister. Seeing Peeta again brought to the surface something that I couldn't place, and that frustration consumed me. It turned into absolute rage. I couldn't contain it any longer.

Now I lie on the floor, senseless to the world. I've been plagued by numbing, crippling pain for weeks now. No company except for the occasional visit from Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. No contact with the outside world expect for that one phone call with my mother. Nothing's gratifying enough to pull me out of my dark, black hole. Pain fills that void.

Seized by the desire to _feel_ something, I drag myself to my feet. My bedroom reeks of Snow's roses, and it's enough to make me want to vomit. I decide that that will satisfy me, so I trudge off to the bathroom. The nausea squeezes my stomach with tightly clenched fists, pushing the meager contents of my stomach out of my body. I take heaving, labored breaths as I lean over the toilet, feeling my head rush. It's not enough to black out. As soon as I've emptied my stomach, the dizziness subsides and I can see straight once more.

I straighten up, look at my reflection in the mirror. It's a terrible sight. The new skin grafts that I got back in the Capitol have started to peel off again. And my hair is wild, untamed. I look gaunt, almost ghostlike. I can't remember the last time I ate. Maybe that's why I couldn't bring myself to vomit again. Anger takes hold of me again, as irrational as it is, and I scream out.

Nothing makes sense anymore. Why I'm here, why the Capitol leaders decided to spare my life. I'm worthless to them. I killed so many people and I was allowed to live. They have to clean up my mess while I lie on the couch in my house, silently mourning the losses I've suffered.

All I know is that I can't leave the house again because I'll be locked up again. People will see me wandering around with this frightening look in my eyes. I've seen death. It's reflected there for all to see.

Exhausted by the emotionally draining morning, I drag myself back to bed and pull the covers over my head. My eyes flutter shut almost immediately. But it's a fitful sleep, the worst I've had in months. The faces of the dead come to haunt me again, converging on me, their hands outstretched, straining for my neck. I know that they are trying to strangle me, stifle my cries, and I struggle to escape. But thousands of sickly pale hands clasp at my throat, squeezing until I can't breathe. I shoot straight up in bed, sputtering and clutching at my chest, seized with paranoia and soaked in sweat.

Nobody comes to see me anymore except for Greasy Sae on occasion, and she evens knows that I've lost touch with reality. She's seen me retreating back into myself, and I see it, too. So it doesn't matter if I look like I belong in an asylum. I won't go outside again, not after what happened yesterday when I tried to go into the woods. Nobody will have to see me.

Realizing that sleep is elusive, I force myself out of bed and throw on a shirt and trousers, which once hugged my body and now hang loosely from my emaciated frame. I stand in front of a mirror for what seems like forever, trying to untangle my matted hair. It has started to grow back in patches. I can't quite pull it back into a single braid, so I just settle for brushing it out. I don't bother to cover the bald spots. It's a scar, a symbol of my losses and my suffering.

Greasy Sae enters the house, calling up to me to announce that she's here for breakfast. I hear her clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. I never use the kitchen if I can help it. Basically, it's all at Greasy Sae's disposal. She is the one who cooks for me, makes sure that I'm eating and not trying to starve myself. Every day, I get closer and closer to the edge of that cliff, but she manages to pull me back for just a little while.

Food has no taste anymore. I find no pleasure in eating, especially because I'm not the one hunting for it. But even so, I head downstairs and take my place at the kitchen table without speaking. I need to eat something, as much as I don't want to.

She turns from the stove and notices me sitting there glumly. Yet Greasy Sae manages to smile at me with a wide, toothy grin. "Morning, Miss Katniss," she says brightly, setting a plate of eggs in front of me. "Been feeling alright this morning?"

I don't know how she does it. How does this woman pull herself together every day, come over here to check on me with a warm smile, and act like everything is fine? We've all lost a lot. I don't know her story well—painful stories of loss are just too much for me to handle—but I know that this can't be easy. But she still does this every single day.

I haven't been able to talk much since I got here. This morning is no different. I mumble something incomprehensible, looking down at my plate. Something inside of me makes me feel guilty, like I should be a little friendlier to the woman that sacrifices her time for me voluntarily each morning, but I can't muster up the energy. Not even for Greasy Sae.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," she says after a few seconds. I glance up at her, see that she's winking at me, wearing a teasing smile on her lips. It falters when she realizes that I'm in no mood to respond. Now she clears her throat. "So. How did the hunting trip go yesterday?"

Tears of anger and frustration build up behind my eyes. They threaten to well up and spill over. My throat tightens at the mention of hunting, at the suggestion of the woods. At the memory of Gale and the way things used to be. Instead of answering her question, I pick up my fork and start shoveling eggs into my mouth as fast as I can, stuffing myself so that I don't have to talk. I hope that she picks up on the hint that I don't want to discuss this.

A good thirty seconds pass, and I'm still chewing my food. I think that Greasy Sae understands, because her wrinkled features loosen. Her face falls—she seems to be concerned, even hurt and upset. But if she is, she doesn't say anything about it. "Well. I should probably go," she says, starting for the front door. "You know, there's a proposal to start rebuilding the town square. I might be setting up shop there soon." Greasy Sae pauses before she opens the door, catching my eye. "Maybe when you're ready to start hunting again, you'll sell me some of your game." A small smile graces her features. "Enjoy your breakfast, now."

As much as I am unwilling to speak, to participate in any kind of socialization, I love the fact that Greasy Sae didn't call attention to my ragged appearance. I think that she can see that I need my space. And I couldn't be more grateful for that.

Just as she's opening the door, she stops short, crying out in surprise. "Well, look who's here! Came all the way home from the Capitol, eh? Good to have you back, boy." Greasy Sae widens the doorway, revealing none other than Peeta Mellark.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Wow, I'm surprised to see reviews and views already on this story! Thanks to those that left positive reviews. I'm posting the second chapter because I am determined to faithfully update this story… I hope that you decide to stay with me on this. Enjoy!_

I turn back around quickly in my seat, unable to look at him any longer. My nightmares haven't fully subsided—I can't push my fear and anger away. It's really hard to disassociate those feelings from Peeta. I wonder if I will ever be able to.

"Thanks. It's…good to be back," he says hesitantly. His voice sounds the same, still elicits a response from me. My heart thuds against my chest, but I think that it's adrenaline. I want nothing more than to flee from this table and hide away where he can't see me. "I was just about to knock."

"Come on in! I was on my way out anyway. Might as well keep Katniss company." I hear that teasing tone creeping back into Greasy Sae's voice again. I'm horrified, enraged that she's just invited Peeta into _my_ house without my consent. Forget what I said about her respecting my privacy. I decide that I can no longer trust Greasy Sae. That's another person to cross off my ever shrinking list.

"All right," Peeta says warily, and I hear him taking a step into the house. Greasy Sae's voice floats through the door as she calls out a goodbye to both Peeta and I. Then I hear the door shutting, and the house is completely silent.

I keep my eyes on my breakfast plate, too tense and anxious to let my eyes wander. My back stiffens up—is Peeta still standing by the door, or has he crossed into the kitchen? I pretend for a moment that I'm a young child, deluding myself into believing that if I can't see him, then he can't see me.

There's no indication that he's even here. I can't hear breathing or any sort of movement. It makes me so uncomfortable, to the point that I'm actually twitching with nervous anticipation. Then: "Katniss."

His voice, coming from directly behind me, makes me jump. Since when has his leaden tread improved? I couldn't hear him moving at all, but maybe that's because the only sounds I could make out were the sounds of my pounding heart. I can relax a little now that I know he's here, but I won't turn to face him. Instead, I press my lips tightly together and remain silent. There's nothing that I want to say to him, nothing that won't lead to more unpleasantness between us.

I know that it's unfair, the way that I'm treating him. Haymitch said as much when we were fighting together in the Capitol. If the situation had been reversed, he insinuated, Peeta wouldn't have held me responsible for my actions. He would have tried to bring me back to myself. But here I am, judging him, holding him at arm's length, punishing him for things he couldn't control. Well, I'm not so sure that I believe that. Couldn't he have stopped himself from saying the things he did in order to cut me down?

Unless his mind has deteriorated so much that he can no longer pick up on body language, I hope he'll leave me alone. Peeta fails to understand, however. He crosses the room, sets a loaf of lightly charred bread down on the dining room table, and backs away slowly. A peace-offering. "Fine, you won't talk. I get it." While he was carefully avoiding my gaze before, he now allows himself to lift his eyes to mine. They are full of pain, though he's trying his hardest to downplay it. He gives me an eye-roll, almost half-heartedly. "But honestly, it really pisses me off that you won't even look at me."

An angry flush creeps up the back of my neck. How dare he talk to me like that? After all I've been through… I want to say that so badly, to throw my pain and suffering in his face, but I won't do it. I know that he's just prodding me to fight back. He's testing me, baiting me. Maybe it worked before, but I won't give him the satisfaction.

He lets an impatient, lingering silence fill the room. But I won't let a single utterance slip. It must be killing him inside to see that I won't budge. Still, Peeta isn't saying anything.

It dawns on me slowly that he's refusing to speak first. We are caught in a stalemate. It's nothing new to me—we've had our share of fights in the past, and we've both been at war. No way am I letting him win this one. I'll just wait until he breaks. It shouldn't take long. I've seen him deteriorate before. This realization gives me a sick sort of pleasure, and I can feel the insanity from this morning sinking back in.

There's a long sigh, sad and defeated. "Did I upset you somehow?" he asks, drawing nearer to me. I tense up at the sight of him approaching, like a wild animal. He's like a hunter with his bow drawn, poised to shoot at the most sensitive spot. I hate him for it. "Hmm? Is this because of the primrose bushes?" The name, an indirect reference to the sister I tried my best to protect, guts me. It's as if he has shot me, killed me, slit me down the middle and gutted me completely. That's not an easy feeling to deal with.

I'm fragile, and it doesn't take much for me to snap. My eyes lock on his, and I'm sure that he can see the rage behind them. His lips have formed a tiny "O" shape, seeing me react so sharply to his words. The wheels are turning in his head, I can tell: _What did I say? Should I take a step back?_ He's teetering on his feet, unsteady, like a hunter caught in the ferocious glare of a beast that's ready to pounce.

I want to throw something at him, show him just how much I hate him, but tears flood my eyes, betraying my steely resolve. I think it makes me appear sympathetic to Peeta, because he loses his fearful look and starts to move towards me, saying my name again in a gentler voice. But I know it's a trap. He's only going to hurt me again. Before he can reach me, I let out a cry of frustration and tear past him, barreling up the stairs and into my room.

I slam the door behind me as loudly as I can. It rattles in its frame, and for a moment, I'm afraid that the walls are going to crack. Satisfied that the door won't break, I throw myself against it, sliding down the length of it to the floor, where I collapse in a fit of sobs. I realize just then how unprepared I am to deal with Prim's death. The primrose bushes are a painful reminder, and hearing Peeta say the words brought the pain to the surface.

But Peeta's right on my tail, refusing to let me slip through his fingers. He taps at the door, probably unsettled by the choked sobs coming from deep within me, and even tries to turn the doorknob when I don't respond. His voice is muffled, but I can just make it out. "Katniss, what's wrong? What did I say?" He barely waits for a response, just launches into the next question. "Will you let me talk to you, at least?" he asks, taking on a pleading tone. I try not to pity him. I try to hate him as much as possible. But the anger subsides as quickly as it came, and it's replaced by resignation. I'm afraid of how seamlessly I shift behind moods. How close I come to losing it all.

What is it about him that makes me act like this? I try to work through it in my mind. I'm furious at him for no apparent reason. Maybe it's because he lost all control and started to hate me, wanted to kill me. It sounds really unfair when I think about it, but at the same time, it's not. Because I had come to trust him, gradually, and when I realized that I wanted him, he betrayed that trust. He broke our bond when he choked me, called me out on my flaws. I don't think that's such a terrible reason to hate someone.

There was a little flicker of joy when I saw him again this morning. I'll admit it, he sparked something inside of me that I hadn't felt in a long time. But it scared me to feel happy again. Made me feel like I was doing a disservice to the people who died, because I allowed myself to forget their suffering for just a few moments. That hardened my resolve, made me want to shut Peeta out all over again. So I did.

"Go away," I say weakly before burying my face in my hands and sobbing into them. I imagined myself screaming the words in his face, startling him with my intensity, maybe breaking his composure in the process. But I'm just so tired of suppressing anger and holding fast to a grudge that I probably should have already let go of. I want to hate him, want to grasp at the tendrils of irrepressible fury that curl around me whenever I call forward the memory of him laughing cruelly in my face, calling me a piece of work and questioning his feelings for me. But the anger eludes me. It's hard to get that angry when he's gently tapping at my door, trying to persuade me to let him in.

There's a long silence, and I have to practically stuff my fist in my mouth to stop myself from sobbing so that I can hear him breathing at the other side of the door. Sad to think that this is the closest that we've been in months. Two inches of plywood separate us, yet another obstacle that can't be breached. The closest we've been in months.

He lets out a beleaguered sigh. "Katniss…" But he doesn't get much beyond saying my name, almost tiredly, as if just uttering it aloud is exhausting. There's a rustling sound on his side, and when he finally speaks again, I realize that he has slid down the doorframe so that he can practically speak directly into my ear. "If you won't let me come near you, then I'll just sit out here and talk, even if you aren't listening." Peeta pauses, allows it to sink in, then says, "You'll have to let me in eventually, you know."

I don't respond. It's easier to close my eyes, drift off to a restless sleep against my door than to acknowledge that Peeta might be right. I can't avoid him forever, can't keep putting up walls that he has the power to dismantle. But I can sure as hell try.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Okay, guys, this is when you start to realize how much I suck at updates. I'm actually doing pretty well right now because I wrote this stuff a couple of months ago, but the next couple of chapters are either in progress or not written yet. I have a clear plan of where I want this story to go because previous drafts were a little draggy and a little too melodramatic… Hopefully this time around, I get it right. I hope to update in the next week, but no promises... I won't sacrifice quality just to get a story done in a timely fashion, but I will try to keep you happy! Thanks for reading, and enjoy the next chapter!_

I come to with a start, haunted by a hazy nightmare where the faces of the dead converged into one, and I saw Peeta's crazed blue eyes boring into mine. His hands tightened around my throat, squeezed until blackness cut in on my vision, and I woke from the nightmare sweating and with the sound of his manic laughter ringing in my ears. I glance warily around my room, which is now submerged in dusky shadows, once again paranoid that reality and nightmares have overlapped.

"You okay?" Peeta asks quietly, and I startle at the sound of his voice just behind me, slamming my back against the door. Then I remember that he's still sitting just outside my bedroom door, waiting for me to talk to him. I grit my teeth, angry at him for somewhat unclear reasons. I can't separate the events in my nightmares from reality, find myself seething with rage over things that he probably didn't do.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" I snap.

"I heard you screaming," he says simply. "Didn't feel right to leave."

The insanity from this morning starts to creep back in, and there's no way for me to control it. "Well, you should have," I reply harshly. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away because they mask the anger in my voice, make me appear weak and helpless when I need to seem strong. "You shouldn't even be here. You don't belong here." I pause, waiting for him to interject, to defend himself, but there's silence at the other end of the door. "You're just some monster that the Capitol sent to finish me off, aren't you?" The implication of what I've just said hits me with full force, and I start to cry again, unable to stop myself.

Before I can go off my head completely and start screaming for him to go back to the labs that he came from, I feel the door opening slowly behind me. Too weak to protest, I melt down to the ground and lie sobbing in a little heap. _Pathetic_. I picture the old Katniss standing over me, her lips pursed tightly and her hard eyes full of disgust. _You're pathetic._

He's kneeling next to me, but the tears in my eyes are blurring my vision. When I wipe them away, sniveling, I imagine that I'll find anger in them, fire behind those impossibly blue eyes, a mutt version of himself ready to pounce and kill. But there's no anger there. No pity, either. His eyes are a little red-rimmed, a little weary, but they regard me seriously. Peeta looks at me like I am an equal. Not a mutt to be silenced, not a pathetic lump on the ground. Under his gaze, I feel a little more like myself.

"I get to care, all right?" Peeta says, breaking the heavy silence between us. His eyes are solemn and ice blue. "You told me to leave you alone, but I'm not going to do that. I get to care about what happens to you, because you can't expect that this—" here he breaks off and gestures at me, curled up in the fetal position on the floor—"is enough to convince me that you're alright." He frowns. "You're not alright. But I want to be here to make sure you are."

I stare at him in stunned silence. "I'm gonna sit here, in spite of how much you hate me right now. We don't even have to talk," he says. "Okay?"

I don't even respond, just shut my eyes to avoid looking at him, to will away that pinch of guilt in my gut. When Peeta lost touch with reality, I pulled away from him. I couldn't bring myself to sit by him when I knew that he had seen me for who I truly am. Deceitful, heartless, cruel.

I guess that the people I once trusted finally saw that side of me, when I pulled back my last arrow and shot Coin instead of Snow. I get the sense that this revelation about my true character prompted my mother to leave to work in Eight's hospitals, allowed Gale to slip away from me without guilt. Even Haymitch carefully limits his interactions with me. Whenever he comes around, I see the wary way that he regards me, like I'm about to snap at any moment.

It's a familiar situation. We all treated Peeta the same way, worried that one sidelong glance, one wrong voice inflection, might set him off. Assuming that I was the trigger, I held my distance, resented him from afar.

When I wake to the sight of sunlight streaming through the window, see Peeta lying asleep on his side, the pinch of guilt in my stomach intensifies. It never occurred to me that I might have been the balm to heal his wounds. Now that our roles are reversed, and he is clearly trying to reach me in ways that I couldn't reach him, I see that I failed him. Maybe it's not that I couldn't have reached him, but that I refused to even try.

He slept by my side, refused to leave even though I slammed the door in his face, told me in no uncertain terms that he won't abandon me. Tears well up in my eyes, but they're tears of gratitude. As much as I want to hold a grudge, I can't quite muster up the energy.

With my arm tucked behind my head, I prop myself up to study Peeta's sleeping form: the way his chest rises and falls slowly, the smoothness of his forehead that is usually accented by a crease between his eyebrows, the calm look on his face. It strikes me how young he looks in sleep, how calm and innocent, untouched by tragedy and pain.

His eyes flutter open, lazily focus on me. Embarrassed, I curl up into a ball and drape an arm over my face. It's easier for me to look at him when he's asleep, easier to confront my feelings when he's not trying to see into me. But I can't hide from him for long. He saw me staring.

"Katniss," he murmurs, then, hesitantly, rests a hand on my shoulder. "You awake?"

While it's obvious that I'm feigning sleep, I pretend to stir and slowly open my eyes to find his locked on mine. My muscles stiffen at the pressure of his hand, which he immediately retracts when he catches the look on my face. Even so, Peeta manages a sleepy grin. "I must have fallen asleep not long after you did," he says, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Oddly enough, that was the best night's sleep that I've had in a _long_ time. Even if it was on a hardwood floor." He shakes his head, and that's when I notice the dark circles ringing his eyes. I wonder how many nightmares have kept him up all night. Me, I can barely get out of bed most days, sunken into a grief-stricken stupor.

His smile fades when I don't chime in. I just hitch up the corner of my mouth in a half-hearted attempt to smile, too drained and humiliated by the events of the past twenty-four hours to go along with his little charade. I can't keep up with the act—_Everything's fine, everything's just the same, it's gonna be okay._ I'm not so convinced.

Now Peeta's expression turns serious. "I've just been thinking. You're here alone, and so am I. No family left, nobody to look out for us… well, maybe Haymitch." He allows himself a small smile here. "We kind of need each other."

And just like that, I've lost respect for him. Abruptly, I sit up, and his eyes follow me, wide with alarm. "Don't," I say, shaking my head at him. "I don't _need_ you. Please." My voice is hoarse, my head is pounding, but still I glare at him and rise from the ground. "I don't need anyone."

"Katniss, wait…" he protests, but it's not enough to stop me. I stalk out of the bedroom and head downstairs. _Screw him_. What he doesn't understand, what he will never understand, is that I don't _want_, or _need_, a man by my side to keep me going. Maybe he needs me, and if that's the case, he's weak and in desperate need of some outlet to reaffirm his masculinity. But me, I'm stronger than that. Even at my lowest point, I refuse to let him think that I _need_ him.

What I _need_ is my sister. But since I can't have Prim, I'll take nobody at all.

I hear him pounding down the stairs behind me, but I won't give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him over my shoulder, to reason with him. As much as my anxiety paralyzes me whenever I approach the front door, I'd prefer to avoid Peeta and confront my fears. When he calls out my name again, I just grit my teeth and swing the front door open. I use my free hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling sunlight, step tentatively out onto the front lawn, command myself to breathe deeply and keep walking. Doesn't matter where I go, as long as it's far from him.

I get as far as the electric fence before I sink to my knees and lose my composure. Suddenly, I'm thinking of Prim, undone by the memory of the primrose bulbs that Peeta planted, the delicate pink blossoms sprouting in the scorched-earth Meadow. What I wouldn't give to talk to her one more time. She was wise beyond her years, frighteningly perceptive. I have no doubt that she would be helping me through this difficult mourning period. Of course, I wouldn't be in this condition if she was still alive.

Thinking about her in the past tense, knowing that the only way I can see her again is when I close my eyes and conjure up the image of her sweet, smiling face, breaks me. The memory of the bomb going off mere seconds before I could reach her enters my mind without permission, and then I'm sobbing into my hands.

A rustling noise behind me makes me jump, and I peel my hands away from my face just long enough to see Peeta standing behind me, looking slightly terrified of me. "You okay?" he asks weakly, because clearly, I am not. I glare at him through my tears.

"You really want me to answer that?" I snap at him. The harshness is unwarranted, I know, but I can't help myself. It's easier to channel my grief into aggression. Peeta's an easy target. The only target, really.

He frowns, then sits in the grass, keeping his distance. Ostensibly, it's out of respect for me, but I see the way that he's eyeing me warily. Mentally, I cross him off my list of people I can trust. What little respect I had for him this morning is gone, now that he's insulted me with his carelessly misogynistic comment and proved that he's afraid of me.

"Do I scare you?" I intended it to come out harshly, to condemn him for being weak and gentle and everything that I am not, but instead it comes out in a trembling half-sob. "You must really think I'm a monster now, huh?" I can't bring myself to look at him for fear that I will see confirmation in his eyes. He's healed, but he still sees me as the monster from his nightmares.

When he doesn't respond, I shake my head furiously to ward off tears. His silence is all the confirmation that I need.

"What are you really upset about?" Peeta asks, once the silence between us has dragged on long enough. I look to him with a mixture of gratitude and hatred. I can't decide which one wins out. His features are neutral, any fear or pity absent from his eyes.

"_You_," I hiss, swiping at the tears that cover my cheeks in a thin veil. "You keep acting like I _need_ you to protect me or something, and I just…" Unexpectedly, I falter. I try to hold onto my anger towards him, but again, it eludes me, slipping out of my tight grasp without warning. I'm left with my hands lying open and lifeless on my lap.

He looks at me skeptically. Peeta may be a lot of things, but he's not stupid. "Katniss."

I can't talk about it, because even thinking of Prim chokes me up. Burying my face in my hands again, I resume my sobbing, even though I know he's watching me. "I—h-hate that I'm crying like this," I blubber, my words coming out in hiccups. "Make it—s-stop." It's true. I hate the fact that my existence has been reduced to sleeping all day and crying all night, that I'm nothing more than a slightly unhinged invalid. I don't say this to Peeta in particular, but I find that it's easier to admit to a smaller truth than to a big one.

Peeta clears his throat, perhaps uncomfortable watching me falling apart. "Okay. Um." It's quiet for a few minutes, but I hear him picking at the blades of grass around us. Then I peek at him through my fingers.

He's holding a small bouquet of weeds in his hands, dandelions among them, which makes my heart stutter in my chest. Could he possibly know that I have unconsciously associated him with dandelions for as long as I can remember? My hands fall limp into my lap as he kneels before me. "I love you," he says, searching my eyes with a grave expression on his face. He takes one of my hands in his and presses the bouquet into it.

I'm stunned, speechless, probably white in the face, when he cracks a smile.

"You asked me to make you stop crying," he says, choking back barely suppressed laughter as my eyes narrow at him. "It was a risk, but it worked, didn't it?" I hurl the weeds in his face, but it just makes him laugh harder. I'm determined to stay angry at him for this, to storm away from him, but then the corners of my mouth are twitching up and I'm laughing, too. It's been a long time since I've laughed, since I've found humor in anything at all.

Then when the laughter subsides, we're just sitting opposite each other in the grass, still a little red in the face. I try to remember what made me so angry at him in the first place, come back up grasping at straws. The tension between us is heavy like lead, but at least we can breathe a little easier now.

"Thanks," I say, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. I think that they're from laughing too hard, an unfamiliar feeling. Then I add, "Jackass." Somehow this lends levity to the situation. He smiles.

"Anytime." Peeta rises to his feet, seems to weigh the consequences of extending a hand to me, after I just chewed him out for insinuating that I need his help. But when he does, I accept it. His hand feels warm around mine.

One day, I'll be able to tell him that I was both horrified and flattered by his faux love declaration, and how much it embarrassed me to secretly enjoy the way my stomach dropped when he first knelt to the ground in front of me. I want to tell him now, even though I can't find the words. They dry up in my mouth and wither away when he stoops over to retrieve the cluster of weeds and presents them to me with a crooked smile.

He doesn't have to say it. I know that he intends for it to serve as a reminder of the one time he managed to pull me out of the darkness, to give me a smile on a bleak day. But I know that it means more, or used to mean more. I'm not sure if there's hope for a better future, or if the dandelions will give way to spring after a long, brutal winter. But I take the dandelions from him silently, tuck the suggestion into the back of my mind, and walk on.

Sometimes, that's all you can do.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I can't believe it, but I actually wrote an entire chapter in two hours. Even more surprising, I like the direction that it took. It's a little more light-hearted than the material I've been writing, a little truer to Peeta's character before everything that went down in Mockingjay, but I think I'll let you all decide that for yourselves. Working on the next chapter now, but until then, enjoy!_

We approach my front door, and there's an awkward moment when Peeta pauses on the stoop, his face full of expectation and hope. I wrap my hand around the doorknob, but look at him over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you planning on going in, or what?" Peeta asks with a shy half-smile. The way he says it frustrates me, like he thinks that he can charm me into letting him inside. But he forgets too soon that things are strained between us. I shake my head at him.

"Peeta, come on." His eyebrows knit together with confusion, and I sigh when I have to elaborate. "I don't think this is such a good idea."

He tries to conceal his crestfallen expression, but I can see right through him. "Oh," is all he can manage to say, sounding more than slightly dejected. Peeta casts his eyes to the ground, scuffs at the ground with the toe of his shoe. "I thought we were okay."

"Sure. For now," I say, and he glances back up at me with evident pain in his eyes. "It's a little more complicated than that, Peeta. We can't be at each other's throats for _months_, and then suddenly become inseparable." I tilt my head at him. "You have to understand that it's… not that easy for me."

Peeta narrows his eyes at me, as if he's trying to read my expression. "Not that easy for you to… what?" he asks softly. A small, teasing smile works its way onto his lips. "Open the door?"

I frown at him, deciding that this is a sign that I was wrong to attempt to speak honestly. "Never mind." With a shake of my head, I start to turn the knob, to let myself in, to close the door on the possibility of friendship with Peeta. Before I can shut the door completely, Peeta surges forward and plants himself solidly in the threshold. He leans against the doorframe so I can't shut him out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologizes, but that hint of humor lingers in his eyes. "What's not that easy for you?"

I look at him, his earnest expression, and against my better judgment, I engage him. "I just… have a hard time trusting people," I say tentatively. "Okay? And you're no exception."

He nods, trying to appear sympathetic and understanding. "I get that," he says, but I'm not convinced. "But look, Katniss, you didn't think you could trust me two years ago. You thought that I was planning to _kill_ you. Um." He realizes too late how similar our situation is now, if not worse because he's dispossessed of his previously stable mental faculties. I give him a pointed look, but he shakes his head in protest. "The point is, you trusted me in spite of that."

"I don't think you understand," I tell him, and I can feel myself starting to get hysterical. "It's not _about_ that." That's a bit of a lie, because I'm not entirely convinced that he won't lose it, that he won't try to strangle me, or worse, once I've put all my trust in him. "Every person that I cared about, every _last _person that I ever trusted, just deserted me here. _Okay?_" Tears start to well up in my eyes. Through my blurry vision, I swear that I can see Peeta giving me a sympathetic look. It pisses me off. "It's better to be alone, when you're just going to end up alone in the end," I say, wrapping my arms protectively around my chest.

Peeta stands in the doorway quietly, looking at me with such a sad expression. Finally, he speaks. "Well, then I won't leave," he says firmly.

"You can't promise that," I argue, a tear slipping down my cheek. "They… they took you before." He winces at my words, which I let slip without thinking about the impact they would have on him. "God knows why the hell you'd want to stay here in Twelve with me. I'm practically insane."

He frowns, then widens the doorway by pushing it open with his foot. "That makes two of us," he says. Now Peeta wears that same expectant look, like he's waiting for me to make the next move. Will I slam the door shut in his face, or will I give him a chance?

Conflicted, I twist the doorknob back and forth in my hand. Then I let go.

The door creaks open wider, and we're standing face to face. He looks almost nervous, nervous that I'm about to reject him, but then I allow myself a small, tight-lipped smile and step aside so that he can come inside all the way.

He stays for the rest of the day, even though it's undeniably awkward between us. I want to laugh, to point this out to him and say tauntingly, _Told you so_. But I can't do that, because for the first time in months, we're not yelling in each other's faces, nor terrified that the other one is full of murderous intent. We're in a fragile state, so I let it go.

We manage to carry on a conversation over dinner, which basically consists of cheese buns and a can of soup that he unearthed from his pantry at home. He's set the small bunch of dandelions that he jokingly plucked for me in a tiny glass that he says he borrowed from Haymitch—a 'shot glass,' he calls it—and placed it in the center of the table. I appreciate the gesture, but a part of me starts to worry that perhaps it wasn't entirely a joke. Every so often, I glance up from my bowl to make sure that he's not staring at me in the lingering way that he used to, and I'm relieved to find him similarly engrossed in his own meal.

"So, how does this work?" I ask him as we clear the dishes from the table and carry them into the kitchen. "This… whatever this is."

"I believe that the term you're looking for is _friendship_?" Peeta says teasingly. I give him a look, and he relents. "Okay, too soon for that. We're just… hanging out."

I arch an eyebrow at him, hopping up onto the kitchen counter so we can talk while he washes dishes. "And what exactly does that entail?"

He lifts a shoulder, keeping his eyes trained on his work. "I don't know. We talk, spend a little time at each other's houses, eat dinner." His eyes dart over to mine. "Are you familiar with the concept?"

"_Yes_," I say, not giving into his gentle teasing. "And the, uh, sleeping situation?" I say this in a low voice, for some reason embarrassed by the forwardness of my question.

"In a bed?" Now Peeta's grinning mischievously, and it's all I can do not to ball up a dishtowel and throw it at his face.

"I'm _serious, _Peeta!" I say with exasperation, but I'm smiling because it's all so humiliating and uncomfortable and strange at once. "I'm trying to find boundaries here."

He nods, now serious, and shuts the water off, soapy water nearly spilling over the edges of the sink. "Okay. Let's talk about it."

I swallow hard, suddenly finding it very hard to talk. "I think that, um… given our situation…" My face starts to burn, and I fight to contain it, to wear a placid expression, but it's all in vain because Peeta's barely suppressing a smile. "We need to sleep in our own houses from now on. It's not like it used to be." I say this as firmly as I can, so there's no ambiguity. We'll keep our waking and sleeping lives separate. Blending them seems incredibly intimate, especially inappropriate given our strained relationship, our broken trust that has yet to mend.

"Yeah." For some reason, he looks relieved by my suggestion. I don't try to read into it, because he is unreadable. Then his face changes, and it's dark and confusing. "What, did you think I was going to disagree with that?"

The blush in my cheeks intensifies. "No, I…" I'm stammering, and I'm not entirely sure what's making me act like this. I'm not attracted to him, not desirous of sleeping beside him, but still I feel the need to convince him of these things.

"Because if that's what you think, then you don't know why I'm here," he says heatedly. "Katniss, if you think that I came back to Twelve just to try to take advantage of you…"

"I don't think that," I interrupt. But the memory of the dandelions is nagging at me. I can't tell him these things, how afraid I am of confronting romantic entanglements, how badly I want to avoid another round of the same push-and-pull game with him. Instead, I shake my head profusely. "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

It's a good enough save, I guess, because his face clears and he nods. "Sure." An awkward silence descends on the room, and he reaches up to his forehead to scratch it.

A few more seconds of silence pass between us, and then he shrugs. "Well, I guess I should be going." A half-smile. "I'm kind of overstepping my boundaries now."

I smile weakly at him, and jump off the counter so that I can walk him to the door. When he pauses, turns to look at me with a serious look in his eyes, I notice the soap bubble standing out on his forehead. A laugh slips out of my mouth.

"What?" he asks, starting to smile again. Wordlessly, I reach up and pop it with my thumb, which leaves a bit of soapy residue on his forehead. My thumb lingers on his skin for half a second, until I lift my eyes to his and see the anxiety that I harbor in my chest reflected there. Quickly, I remove my hand, mumble out an apology.

He ducks his head, clearly as embarrassed as I am by the tension between us. But as he starts to walk through the front door, he turns around again to give me another shy smile. "Thanks. For giving me a chance," he says simply. The words feel loaded, and I'm not sure whether he intended them to be, but instead of worrying about it, I just nod.

"See you, Peeta."

I shut the door behind him, but not until after I've watched him cross the lawn and make it into his own house. I wait until I see a light flicker on in his bedroom window. Somehow, it sets me at ease, knowing that in spite of the tension between us and the physical distance between us, it can be bridged with a few kind words or a few steps.

Most days, I prefer to be alone. I feel this need to assert my independence and prove my strength, especially on days when I need it most. Even though I'm not okay, start to wonder if I'll ever feel okay again, it helps, somehow.

I used to think that if you faded into the background enough, people would eventually forget about you. That you could become forgettable if you tried hard enough. But it's never that way with Peeta. No matter how hard I try to push him away, he keeps coming back.

I let him in sometimes. Not so much at first, because I can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for me to show some vulnerability before he attacks. But it gets easier as time passes to trust him again, to feel at ease when he walks through the door with a loaf of bread in hand and a warm smile on his lips. I stop tensing up when he moves his hand to touch my arm, stop interpreting every motion of his as a threat. I don't know when it stops, but at some point, my anxieties fade without my awareness.

The tension between us persists. Some days, I forget that it's there, but there are days when the weight of his gaze makes me nervous. We don't discuss it, haven't attempted to broach the subject since the first night he ate dinner with me, but I worry that there are unspoken feelings behind those idle glances. It frustrates me that he's so hard to read, that I never quite know where we stand. Sure, we're slowly becoming friends again, but the idea that perhaps he wants something more scares me.

I don't know where I'm getting these ideas. Peeta has certainly never given me any indication that he feels anything romantic for me anymore. It's all very casual, but perhaps I'm putting too much pressure on the situation, reading into it in ways that I shouldn't be.

One night, I catch myself wondering if my fixation on Peeta's possible feelings might be a projection of my own budding affections. But there's nothing there when I search my heart. It's empty, scarred, still beating yet utterly lifeless.

Or is it just that the thought of him falling out of love with me, after years of pure, innocent, adolescent yearning, is too painful for me to consider? That I'm searching for signs of a rekindled spark, because I refuse to consider that he could write me off as easily as I could him?

Frustrated and disgusted with myself, I roll over and bury my head in my pillow, trying to stifle these unwelcome thoughts. We're friends, and that's all we need to be.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: Thanks for the recent follows and favorites! Really appreciating the support, but I would LOVE more feedback! Feel free to follow my Tumblr [ ] for more updates on chapters or to ask me questions, because again, I really appreciate all feedback (critiques especially!) Also, I've posted pieces of other fanfics on another Tumblr [ blog/thepanemdiaries] that you should feel free to check out… Okay, shameless plug over. Enjoy the chapter (and the speed at which I'm posting, this is really rare for me!)_

I wake one morning to the sound of loud, insistent knocking at my front door. It's loud enough that I can hear it clearly all the way upstairs in my bedroom, with covers pulled tightly over my head. Groggy and soaked in a thin layer of sweat from the constant barrage of nightmares, I groan and force my heavy eyelids to open. Dawn has barely broken over the horizon; I can't imagine what could be so serious that it requires me to get out of bed this early.

Grumbling, I make my way downstairs to answer the door. "Are we knocking now?" I call out as I walk into the foyer. "You can just let yourself in, I don't mind—" As I swing the door wide open, I startle at the sight of a very disgruntled Haymitch on my front stoop. It's a bit of a shock, given that he's taken great pains to avoid me since we've been home (and to be fair, I haven't exactly sought him out for company, either). I try to come up with an appropriate greeting, but what do you say to someone who you've essentially forgotten all about?

"A word, sweetheart?" he growls. There's that term of endearment again, thrown carelessly in my face like a well-placed slap. I grimace. If I'd known that this was what I was waking up for…

Sighing, I widen the doorway and allow Haymitch inside. As he brushes past me, I expect to catch a whiff of stale white liquor breath, but it's conspicuously absent. I figure that his sobriety accounts for the dour look on his face, and immediately resolve to talk to Greasy Sae and her friends down at the Hob about scrounging up a couple of bottles of white liquor for Haymitch, so I won't have to deal with these early morning wake-up calls anymore.

"Hey, I never got the chance to thank you," I say, which makes him squint at me as he takes a seat at the dining room table. "You know. For checking up on me these last few months. Making sure that I was eating… hell, making sure that I was even _alive._" I say this caustically, but I plaster on a fake smile just to piss him off. "Oh, wait. I'm sorry. That wasn't _you._" Now I cross my arms over my chest as I stare him down accusingly. "It was Peeta."

"And that will remain a mystery to all," Haymitch grumbles. "Don't try to guilt me, sweetheart, because you didn't exactly do your part for _me_, either." He glowers at me, which I take to mean that I've failed to procure his staple liquor supply, and he's punishing me for it now.

I let the tense silence hang over us for a few moments, but then it's too stifling and I have to break it. He's glaring at me like I have done something to offend him in some way, and I can't for the life of me figure out what that might be. "What are you doing here?" I ask bluntly, hoping to get him to confront me.

The anger in his eyes fades, and Haymitch is left looking drained. He runs a hand through his unkempt hair, rubs at his stubbly, unshaven face. It's weird, Haymitch seems more than a little hesitant to speak. And I'm about to press him to speak when he comes out with it. "Look, sweetheart. We've got a problem here."

"What? What's wrong?" I ask him quickly, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread overcoming me. Something terrible has happened, something that I could have done something to prevent, possibly. I brace myself for the blow that's sure to come.

"I wanted to tell you that you should stay away from Peeta." He says it tiredly, as if he'd been dreading saying the words. It takes me aback immediately.

"Stay away?" I repeat, not sure that I heard him correctly. "What are you talking about?"

Haymitch sighs. "Do I have to spell it out?" I nod at him, sliding into a seat across from him before I realize what I'm doing. I'm confused, surprised. Isn't Haymitch the one who's always telling me that I don't deserve Peeta's kindness? That I should leap at the chance to be with him? So why is he telling me that I shouldn't associate with him? "Katniss…" Haymitch starts hesitantly, but he gains some resolve and keeps talking. "He's unstable. Maybe you don't see it because you're passed out all the time, but I do. He keeps having these episodes, and he tells me that he's fine, but… I don't trust him. I can't risk you getting yourself hurt."

I let it sink in. Peeta's still suffering. And despite that, he keeps coming back to me to make sure that _I'm_ okay? It's too much to take in all at once, so I brush it off quickly.

"No," I say, shaking my head repeatedly as if the motion will put Peeta's suffering at bay. "No, that's not possible." He can't be in such a terrible condition. How could he be, when he maintains such a positive attitude, when he manages a smile on even the bleakest of days?

Again, Haymitch lets out a loud sigh. "Be careful, sweetheart. He's a good kid and all, I really do believe that. But I'm just worried that he might go off his head and—"

"I can handle myself," I say sharply, cutting Haymitch off. "What do you know, anyway? You've seen me maybe once since we've come home, and I can only assume that you've spent as much time with Peeta." I raise an eyebrow at him. "I spend most days with him. He's fine. I can handle it, but really, _thanks_ for your concern."

Perhaps I deliver the last words with a hint of venom, and perhaps I'm crossing a line with my outright defiance. This seems to reignite the anger in Haymitch, because his eyes flash and suddenly he's pushing his chair back violently and stepping away from the table.

I start to tell him that I have no idea what he's talking about, that maybe the withdrawal symptoms are just getting to him, but then he takes a step closer to me and seizes my right arm, clenching it tightly with his meaty hands. I let out a sharp cry of pain and try to wriggle out of his surprisingly strong grasp, to no avail. "When I give you advice, I expect that you take it. Especially when it concerns your safety," he hisses at me, his breath pungent and cloying.

"I'm sorry… you think that I'm really going to listen to you and avoid Peeta?" I respond incredulously. "What gives you that idea, just out of curiosity?"

"Katniss, I'm telling you… it's not a good idea to see him." Haymitch fixes me with a hard stare, almost like a stern father would do to his misbehaving daughter. But I don't feel secure in knowing that Haymitch is looking out for my best interest. He is not my mentor anymore. "You know how he is. It doesn't take much to set him off, Katniss. And you're usually the trigger." His grip tightens on my forearm until I can feel his uneven nails digging into my skin. "Would you _like_ to be choked again by a boy who easily has fifty pounds on you? Because I can arrange for it. Believe me, it won't take much for him to hurt you."

Anger bubbles up inside me, and it threatens to boil over. "He's not like that!" I cry out in anguish, attempting to wrench my arm away again. But Haymitch holds me fast. "Why are you making him out to be some kind of monster?"

"Listen to me, sweetheart," Haymitch snaps, taking his free hand to pull my chin up. Now we're just a few inches apart, glaring at each other with hateful intensity. "Peeta is _unstable_. He's fine one second, and he's having an attack the next. I've managed to restrain him, of course. But you… you could set him off." His eyes narrow so much that they are almost slits in his puffy red face. "I've got to take care of you, and if you get yourself hurt…"

"So I'm supposed to just _abandon_ him, if he's really as bad as you say?" I ask sarcastically, managing to break free of Haymitch's painful grip on my chin and forearm. "He's having anxiety attacks and I'm supposed to _ignore _him. Right. Because he would have done the exact same thing if it was me."

Haymitch scoffs at me. "No. He wouldn't have," he says ruefully. "But that's only because he's a more decent person than you. Or at least he was, back then."

I feel my stomach churning. I can't believe that Haymitch, who told me repeatedly that I didn't deserve someone like Peeta, is telling me that I shouldn't be taking care of him. It makes me sick, not just because walking away would force me to leave another debt unpaid, but because I can't imagine abandoning him at a time like this. So I shove Haymitch away from me angrily. "Go to hell," I tell him through gritted teeth, which makes him snarl at me in response. "I know what I'm doing."

"Fine," Haymitch snaps, storming off towards the front door. "Maybe I'm wrong about him. But as your mentor—"

"You're _not_ my mentor!" I explode at him, practically leaping out of my chair. Haymitch's eyes widen and then harden like steel. "I don't need you in my ear, telling me what to do about Peeta. If you don't recall, that's gotten us nowhere in the past."

He glares at me so intently that I swear I can feel my skin searing under his gaze. "Do whatever the hell you want," he says, his voice frighteningly low and even. "Don't come crying to me when he inevitably loses his shit and tries to squeeze the life out of you. I'll only say that I told you so." With a withering stare, he shakes his head and slams the door so loudly behind him that it rattles in the frame.

I'm so furious that I can't think straight. In a blind rage, I burst into the kitchen and pace back and forth between the cabinets, seriously contemplating taking out all the glassware and smashing it on the linoleum tile floor. But, as my turbulent moods usually do, the anger quickly dissipates and I'm left feeling hollow.

It's all so confusing. Peeta, who seems so put-together and sane, is struggling as much as I am to stay afloat. The way Haymitch tells it, he's unhinged, a threat to my security, a threat to himself. But I have a hard time reconciling the image of him having a panic attack with the memory of him presenting me with a cluster of dandelions. He's gentle, tame in my mind. How can he be anything different?

I try not to put too much stock into what Haymitch says—he's as damaged as I am, and I'm certain that his craving for white liquor is seriously impacting his judgment. What he interprets as a psychotic break might just be an isolated depressed state. He's probably exaggerating.

Yet a part of me is worried, and the anxiety starts to spread as the full weight of what Haymitch told me sets in. I may not always listen to Haymitch, may not always trust him, but he's the best thing I've got next to Peeta. And as much as I hate to admit it, Haymitch has often been right in his assumptions, shrewd in his counsel. He may have breached my trust before, but he's never tried to kill me. And he's survived the Games, which I suppose makes him a pretty good judge of character, a good estimator of potential external threats.

What does that say about me, then, if I couldn't see the danger in Peeta that Haymitch has seen? Am I blind to his faults, or is he just exceptionally skilled at hiding his weakness from me?

Now I'm back to square one. I'm beginning to doubt Peeta's trustworthiness, beginning to doubt the extent of my own personal safety. But I don't want to turn my back on him again, if he is as bad as Haymitch says.

I just hope I figure out what to do before everything spirals out of control.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note:_ _It's been too long since I've updated, so here's a super short chapter to tide you over until the next one gets posted! Thanks for being so patient with me, and enjoy!_

Because I can't get Haymitch's warning out of my head, can't erase the memory of Peeta's crazed eyes and can't stop worrying that there will be a recurrence, I throw all my energy into washing the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. With the faucet running and the soap foaming, I gradually calm myself down. I'm lost in the repetition, so much so that I eventually realize that I've been washing the same three plates over and over because my hands are bright red and stinging from the hot water and soap. But I don't even care. It's a distraction, and a much-needed one at that.

The sound of approaching footsteps rattles me, because I was so absorbed in my task that I didn't even hear the front door opening. Flustered, I lose my grip on the plate that I've been mindlessly scrubbing at, and it shatters on the kitchen floor into tiny shards.

"Sorry," Peeta says when I nervously turn to face him. He shoots me a guilty, apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to scare you. The front door was unlocked, I just figured…"

"Don't apologize," I tell him, smoothing my hair down with my shaking hands. "I'm just a little, um, out of sorts this morning." I draw a sharp breath in through my nose and force a smile in return.

The sight of Peeta should not set me on edge, but I can't pretend that his presence isn't making me anxious. He looks the same as always—thin, a little weary, but otherwise content—and I want to feel the same way I always do around him. Instead of feeling the permanent weight in my chest lift, it settles.

I feel him staring at me as I sweep up the bits of broken porcelain, but I keep my eyes on the ground, afraid of what I might see when I look back at him. "What are you doing up so early?" I ask him, trying to sound casual. The wavering in my voice must ring clear.

"Is it early?" he responds, but his avoidance of my question couldn't be plainer to me. "I don't even notice anymore. I'm usually up around…" He trails off, and when I glance up at him, his face is closed off. "Doesn't matter."

He doesn't have to tell me how little he sleeps. The dark circles under his eyes are telling enough.

I wonder what nightmares plague him at night. When I feel a twinge of sympathy tugging at my heart, I hear Haymitch in my ear. _You're usually the trigger_.

Does my face haunt his nightmares, reduce him to the hateful creature he was just a few months ago? I'm not sure that I want to find out for certain.

"Did I hear yelling earlier?" Peeta asks cautiously, once I've swept the shards into a pile. I straighten up and meet his eyes, sure that he can see the waves of anxiety radiating from me. "I thought I heard something coming from over here." His eyebrows knit together with concern, and that familiar crease in the middle of his forehead takes shape. "Is everything okay, Katniss?"

"I'm fine," I say, too quickly, too dismissively. I can see by the way he blinks in surprise that he wasn't expecting that. He was expecting to listen to me talk about how I'm feeling, what I'm going through, but we both know that I'm not that girl. And how do I even begin to tell him where the root of my problems lies without completely crushing him? _Look, Peeta, I talked to Haymitch and we decided that I should keep my distance from you because he thinks you've gone off your head completely. _I can't do that.

"Okay…" He looks skeptical, looks like he wants to say more, but he just shakes his head and shuts his mouth. On the one hand, I'm relieved, but I feel a rift forming between us and it hurts me to know I'm responsible for it.

I can't bear to stand here, look at his crestfallen face any longer, so I clear my throat. "I'm kind of tired," I lie, because my nerves are on fire, keeping my body awake and trembling. "Think I'll go lie down for a little while."

Usually I'd offer to let him hang around the house, knowing how much he hates to be alone in his empty house with his demons, but I don't like the idea of him bringing them here.

He seems to be waiting for me to offer, but when I'm quiet and keep my arms folded protectively across my chest, something in his face changes and he nods. "Sure. I'll, uh, get out of your way."

It's not until I'm safely buried under the covers that I process the look on Peeta's face. It wasn't a look of hurt and confusion. I've seen that look more times than I can count.

Those steely eyes, that tense jaw… that was a look of resentment.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Thought I'd introduce a new perspective in this chapter. Thinking of weaving Peeta's narrative into the story because I haven't read anything like that before. Let me know what you think!_

_Peeta's POV_

As long as I've been back in District Twelve, I've been pretty good at keeping my emotions in check. Katniss always thought that I was a good actor when it came to playing up our romance for the cameras, and I suppose that I have a knack for making lies look like the truth. It's a talent that allows me to barely suppress my unpredictable panic attacks, to appear cool and calm when I'm boiling under the surface.

I've reached my limit this morning.

I catch myself muttering under my breath as I angrily slam her front door and stalk off to my own house, a habit I've been able to conceal from her so far, but one that belies my calm demeanor. Doesn't matter anymore. The palpable tension in the air already tipped me off that she's afraid of me again. Never mind that I've taken great pains to protect her—I clear out of the house when I feel the dread creeping back in; sleep alone even as the flashbacks enter my nightmares and wake with screams and cold sweats. She's afraid of me, and even though she has no reason to fear me, she's already slipping away.

My shaking hands close around the telephone in my study, and I punch in my therapist Dr. Aurelius' number without a second thought. He picks up on the first ring, but my calls are so frequent and urgent nowadays that he has to fight to maintain an interested tone.

Look, I realize that I'm not the picture of perfect mental health. Dr. Aurelius helped me understand that in the early stages of therapy a few months ago. He explained that after two arenas, weeks of sustained torture and a civil war, my mind and body are still undergoing the damaging effects of stress. I didn't want to believe him, but I find myself shaking and panicking for no reason at all, find myself pacing my bedroom back and forth and clutching at my hair all night long instead of sleeping. The realization that I'm barely functioning made me reliant on him for counsel. Sometimes I think he's at least partly relieved that I fought him bitterly to return to Twelve, if only because it allows him to have a brief period of respite between phone calls.

I hear myself rambling on about how _upset _I am that Katniss is holding her distance for inexplicable reasons, but some part of me is sick and tired of making these pathetic long-distance calls and complaining about my problems because it's all so irrational. If I wasn't as riddled with fear all the time, I might be able to sit down and take a deep breath and work through these emotions on my own. But because I can't exactly go running to Katniss right now to talk, and never really felt like I could anyway, I'm forced to call a Capitol therapist with graying temples and the most unconvincing, "I'd like you to elaborate on that thought," I've ever heard in my life.

"Well, Peeta, I hate to say it, but I think that this is a positive development," he's saying in my ear in this monotonous tone, as if he's reciting the words from his notepad. "We've discussed your increasing awareness of the danger you pose to yourself, so perhaps it's best that Katniss has recognized this on her own."

I hang onto the phone, struggling to find something to say but utterly failing because his words still haven't resonated with me. "I'm sorry?" I manage, my body almost going numb. He can't be serious.

"Have you reconsidered moving to District Eight for evaluat—" I slam the phone down into the cradle before he can finish his sentence. It makes me too sick to even think about.

I can't leave. District Twelve does hold the most triggers for my attacks—namely, Katniss Everdeen—but it's also the only place that feels a little like home. Even though the center of the district is ravaged by firebombs, it still holds the ghosts of my past, and that's not something that I can turn my back on in favor of a team of doctors and therapists in white coats and mildly sympathetic faces.

She hurts me, too, in ways that she'll never understand. Sometimes the way that she tilts her head or cuts her eyes at me brings a memory to the surface, and it hurts so much that the pain in my chest swells and the throbbing in my forehead intensifies enough that I have to extricate myself before I lose control. And I can never tell if it's a real memory or just something I was told, but it hurts just the same. But the pain is good because it reminds me that I'm still alive and that she is, too, and it's something I could never bring myself to abandon.

That doesn't mean that I'm not still furious with her for brushing me off this morning. I raise the phone again and slam it down into the cradle, partly to express my frustrations with the doctor's advice, partly to deal with the anger boiling inside. It's probably misdirected, but as with all my irrational moods, I can't control its intensity or target.

"Calm _down,_" I tell myself through gritted teeth, but it's no use. My hands are shaking at my sides and clenching into fists without a conscious effort, and I feel angry enough to… to…

_It's a hazy image. Her face, tear-stained and glowing all at once. Glittering eyes that I used to find mesmerizing, like fine silver. She's standing at the end of a dim hallway with arms outstretched, laughing and crying at the same time. _

_Thick, muscular arms hold me back, but I shrug them off. I won't let them keep me from her, not when I've been fighting for so long to get back to her. I'm a little dazed from the events of the last twelve hours, but even though I can't quite place her, I know that I have to get to her. I push past the waves of people surrounding me, ignoring their watchful eyes. I have to reach her, have to… what? _

_Automatically, I reach for her, but my hands close around her throat instead of her waist. Don't know why, but it seems like the right thing to do, like I should have done this long ago. Something inside of me breaks, and I just focus on the way her eyes cloud over and she chokes for air. The desperate look in her eyes, a victory and a crushing defeat. A pinch in my neck and everything goes black, but I hold my grip until the last. _

"_Shit_." The tension building inside of me falls away and my fists unclench. Still shaking, I try to force the memory out of my mind, but it persists stubbornly. Already, I know that it's too late, that I've already succumbed to the attack, that I can't do anything else but hold my head in my hands and wait for it to pass.

I hate myself for falling victim to these panic attacks. For twenty minutes at any given time, I'm a prisoner again, a shivering, anxious heap on the ground. Twenty minutes of a blank mind and blind terror. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost picture them standing in the cell doorway, beckoning for me to follow, to watch my fellow prisoners meet their own gruesome ends. The worst kind of punishment is that of fear and dread, and it's a feeling that has become all too familiar to me.

When I come back to myself, sunk down to my knees on the floor of the study and struggling for air, I know that there's no way that I can leave this place. While the memories of my actions and the guilt gnaw at me, threaten to destroy me completely, I know I can't be alone in an unfamiliar place. As hurt as I am, I can't leave Katniss behind. I need her to pull me out of that dark place.

…

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Haymitch grumbles, rubbing his temples. "I may have been your mentor in the Games, and I may have had a hand in rescuing you from the Capitol, but if there's one thing you should know, it's that I'm _not_ your damn love mentor." He fixes me with a hard stare. "Only way I'd be open to discussing that part of your life is if you happen to have any liquor on you."

"Nope, sorry," I tell him curtly, pausing just for a moment while pacing back and forth in Haymitch's living room. He's slumped over in his armchair, regarding me with a bored expression. But I'm desperate to talk to _someone_ about what I'm going through. Someone who knows me well, who won't flatly tell me to up the dosage of my anxiety medication the second I start to get flustered. "Also, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop taking shots at me. This is serious."

He sits up in his chair, makes a poor attempt to appear more interested in what I have to say. "Right. Of course. You don't _love_ her, you're just terribly concerned for her welfare and worried about what she thinks of you and waiting on her _hand and foot_ because you're…her friend." Haymitch raises a bushy eyebrow. Even I have to admit that it sounds suspicious.

"Yeah, we're friends. You're right about that much," I say defensively, falling back onto the couch. Strange that I don't have to sweep aside empty bottles of white liquor in order to take a seat, and stranger still that I'm seeking advice from a newly sober and wildly unpleasant Haymitch, but the situation doesn't leave me much choice. "It's just that… things were starting to go back to normal with Katniss. As normal as they could be," I add, and he rolls his eyes. "She was finally comfortable around me, not glaring at me like she wanted to slit my throat or ignoring me completely, but actually _talking_ to me. Like, actually treating me like a human being." I swallow hard, fighting back an unwelcome lump in my throat. "But I walk in this morning, and she gives me this look like… like I'm this rabid animal about to pounce, and she doesn't have any arrows left to shoot." Haymitch stares at me, lips pursed like he's just tasted something sour, but I don't know how to stop myself. "What did I do wrong?"

He stares at me blankly for a few seconds in silence, then shrugs. "You didn't do anything, as far as I know," he says. His tone is too light, cautious. I frown at him.

"Well, I must have done something." I fall silent, feeling defeated, and rest my chin in my hand as I scour my mind for some sort of clue. But there's nothing there to tip me off.

Haymitch clears his throat, forcing me to look at him. "Accept it. Move on," he says with a shrug. "You know Katniss. When she sets her mind on something, she won't budge." He shakes his head, exasperated. "Don't waste your breath, trying to talk her out of it."

First Dr. Aurelius, now Haymitch. Are they actually advocating that I turn my back on Katniss when I need her? Or, more importantly, when she needs me? I stare at Haymitch in disbelief, my jaw hanging open. I can't find the words to express my profound disappointment in what paltry advice he has to offer.

"Maybe the doctor had a point," he's saying now, fixing his gaze on the wall behind my head. "Ever considered moving to another district? Getting away from her for a change?" He waits for me to respond, and glances at me when I'm silent. The look on my face must be telling, because he sighs loudly. "Look, this is in your best interest. We both know you're unstable, and honestly, I don't know how you've made it this far without choking her because she's stubborn as hell." I have to nod in agreement, even though I resent the implication that I still want to hurt her. "Take some time away, at least. Give yourself a chance to recuperate." He cocks an eyebrow. "Maybe meet a girl. A _nice_ girl, who's well-adjusted."

I stand up abruptly, unwilling to hear any more. "You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him heatedly. "Me and Katniss, we were in a really good place up until a couple of hours ago, and I'm not about to throw all those weeks of progress away just because you think it's in my _best interest_." I glare at him, and I don't even care if he thinks that this outburst is just an indicator of my instability. "I'm not leaving her like that."

"Suit yourself," Haymitch says, settling back in his armchair with a haughty look. "Nothing I can do to stop you, I suppose."

"Damn right," I shoot back, and storm out of the living room without a second glance.


	8. Chapter 8

_Peeta's POV_

It's unbelievable to me that Haymitch could ever suggest that I leave District Twelve—and Katniss—behind. As painful as it is for me to be here most days, it's the only home I've ever known. Even if it's a pile of rubble and ash, it's still home. And she's still…Katniss.

While it pisses me off that Haymitch could so casually suggest that I try to move on, meet another girl, I also can't help but roll my eyes. He knows as well as I do that Katniss, no matter how infuriating she may be at times, will always be an important part of my life. I'm not prepared to let her go, and even less prepared to consider the thought of starting a new life with someone else.

Because that's the thing about Katniss and me. We may be polar opposites, may clash with explosive results, but we share experiences that nobody else could ever hope to understand. There's a part of me that only she knows, and I'd like to believe that she feels the same. But sometimes, that mutual understanding seems to serve as a boundary line between us, because we are both reluctant to revisit it.

I'm still fuming at Haymitch, which is an improvement over my irrational burst of anger toward Katniss this morning. As much as I want to disappear for a few hours, bury my head under the covers and shut out the world, I know that I can't. The silence and solitude in that cavernous, empty house is often too much for me to bear. What I need right now is a friend.

Unfortunately, that friend is likely still holed up in her room, carefully avoiding me for reasons still unclear to me.

Against my better judgment, I approach her front door and knock softly. There's no answer, so I try again, anxiety increasing as I realize that she's quite literally shutting me out. Again, my insistent knocking goes unanswered.

I bite down on my bottom lip. Is it a breach of trust to walk right in, or is it worse to simply shrug and turn away? I'm conflicted, but based on the few reliable memories I have of this girl, I know how much she despises people who let indecision paralyze them. So I inhale sharply and twist the doorknob, letting myself in.

"Katniss?" I call softly, venturing into the living room. But the entire first floor is dark, remarkably quiet. Frowning, I keep poking around, repeating her name. There's no sign of her anywhere. By all appearances, the house is empty.

So she really is avoiding me. Going to great lengths to keep her distance. I can't say that it doesn't hurt, particularly because I thought that we were in a good place. That streak of anger and disappointment flares up again, if only because I just want an explanation. I feel like I deserve at least that much.

I let instinct guide me. Blindly, I wander through the outskirts of the district, trying to replicate the path I took to find her the last time she was pissed at me. When a rusty chain-link fence enters my field of vision, I know I've found it. She can't be far from here.

Adrenaline surges through me at the thought of a confrontation, of finally letting my guard down and demanding an apology for the hell she put me through. Not today, but the past eighteen months.

And then I see her. Through the twisted metal chains, I can see her with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking like she's desperately trying not to cry. Her shaking shoulders give her away.

It's like the wind has been knocked out of me. Whatever anger and resentment I was harboring in my chest up until this moment simply dissipates, and I'm left standing on the other side of the fence, staring at her with my heart in my throat. She doesn't see me, thankfully can't see the burn of tears behind my eyes. I blink them away quickly—this is hardly the time to be self-indulgent and weak.

I find the weak spot in the fence and wriggle underneath, but she's so lost in her own thoughts that she doesn't even notice me. Drawing in a deep breath, I push myself off the ground and cautiously approach her.

She startles at the sound of my footsteps, turns to me with thinly veiled panic in her eyes, but at least she has the courtesy to attempt to hide it from me. Nervously, I tug up the corner of my mouth, hoping that it will set her at ease, but she stares at me, bewildered, frozen. I can't help but feel like a damn fool for coming out here with selfish intentions.

I'm ridiculously uncomfortable, and Katniss makes no effort to ease my discomfort. Awkwardly, I shift my weight back and forth before letting out the breath I've been holding and settling down in the grass beside her. I have no clue what to say to her; it's as if I'm a hapless twelve year-old boy again, worried that a simple glance or word will scare her away.

So I gather my courage and look at her. Our eyes meet fleetingly, and my worst fears are confirmed. Apparently, my presence is enough to reduce her to tears, because she breaks down as soon as her eyes lock on mine. As if I didn't feel guilty enough.

I squeeze my own eyes shut, wishing that I could shut this out. It's too awful, watching her face crumple and her shoulders cave in. More than anything, I want to make it stop. But she's unreachable, and it's obvious that we're too far past pathetic attempts at humor. Quick remedies won't be enough.

Just as soon as I tentatively slide my arm across her bony shoulders, she stiffens. Her entire body tenses at my touch and she manages to hold back her sobs. I swear that my heart drops into my stomach. _You idiot_. I made her stop crying, but the fact that I can feel her neck muscles standing out against my arm proves that I was wrong to come here.

I'm about to draw back, stammer out an apology and get the hell out of here while I still have some pride left, but Katniss surprises me by relaxing her body. Now, she's loose and languid and leaning into me. She's resumed her crying, but it's less hysterical than it was a few minutes ago. And she's tucked under my arm, practically melting against me.

"I'm a horrible person," she mumbles against my chest, once the flood of tears has subsided. I look down at her, still trying to process this dramatic change. How could she throw me over one moment, and then cling to me the next?

"No," I say, but the word is faint, unconvincing. I clear my throat. "No, you're not," I tell her, even though I'm not so sure that I believe it myself. My arm has turned to stone around her, but what of my heart?

She cranes her head to regard me with red, bleary eyes. "I _am_," she says insistently. "And you know it, too. Don't try to placate me." Katniss's voice takes on a sharp edge. "Can't you just agree with me for once?"

I hold her gaze until it's uncomfortable and turn my eyes away at the last moment. I wish I knew what I was agreeing with, wish I knew what kind of mess I've gotten myself into by coming home.

"Look, Katniss, you don't have to explain yourself," I hear myself saying. What is about her that turns my steely resolve into liquid? "I know you were fighting with Haymitch this morning, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that it had something to do with me. But I'm not asking you to tell me what he said or to defend yourself." Suddenly, the yells echoing throughout the Victor's Village make sense to me as I piece together the bits of my conversation with Haymitch—he must have warned her to stay away from me, and used a similar tactic on me. But it would hurt too much to hear her confirm it. "I just want you to know that, regardless of what he wants you to think about me, or what you think about me," I find the courage to meet her eyes again, "I'm here for you."

Katniss is silent, staring at me with pain infusing her features, and I hold my breath until she eventually shakes her head. "You're making it worse," she says finally, her face screwed up as she tries to hold back tears unsuccessfully.

I let my arm fall away from her shoulder, and immediately, she sits forward and crosses her arms over her chest. "Sorry," I say, but I'm not quite sure what it is that I'm apologizing for. She cuts her eyes at me briefly before looking down at the ground.

It's quiet for too long, and I'm feeling more and more like an idiot the longer that I sit here. The silence is growing unbearable, so I clear my throat just to break it. "Should I leave?" I ask, without exactly meeting her eyes. I feel stupid for asking, feel stupid for waiting so long before asking. I'm stupid for letting her unpredictable moods dictate my life.

She turns to me harshly, her head snapping to mine so sharply that I startle at the intensity of her stare. "Why?"

"_Why?_" I repeat incredulously. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Katniss, but I'm getting the sense that I'm not welcome here." I give her a pointed look. "And I'm not just talking about this particular patch of grass."

Tears well up in her eyes again, but instead of giving into it, she blinks them away and clenches her jaw. "Screw it," she says as she turns around to face me completely. "I'm already sick and tired of this whole tortured dynamic we have going on here, so I'm just going to be blunt." The determined look on her face fades quickly, giving way to something more akin to sheer panic.

I wait, somewhat patiently, for her to start explaining, but then she starts chewing on her thumbnail as she struggles to find the words. I'm about to give up when she opens her mouth hesitantly. "It's like I said before. I have a hard time trusting…people," Katniss starts. The lingering pause isn't lost on me. I'm better at reading subtext than she supposes.

"Yeah, well, you don't get the monopoly on that excuse," I say, surprising even myself with the rancor in my tone. Katniss blinks at me, then narrows her eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been using that one for years. I think I should get to take a crack at it for once," I tell her. The anger I've been feeling towards her, less irrational than justified at this point, churns inside me and seeps into my voice. "Believe me, Katniss, I don't exactly trust you, either. You haven't made it easy for me."

Her eyes are hard, unforgiving. "Stop."

"Why should I trust you, when you turn against me at the drop of a hat?" I accuse her. Her mouth drops open slightly, but I keep pushing. "You know it's true."

Katniss's face flushes bright red. Her fists tighten into balls and release, but she can't stop herself from exploding at me. "Haymitch warned me," she says sharply, and it's a heavy blow. I struggle to keep my expression calm and even, but I'm sure that the pain I feel at hearing of Haymitch's betrayal registers on my face. "He said you might be unstable, that you might try to…" She falters, and I notice that she looks more pained than triumphant as she utters the words aloud. I wait for her to finish her sentence, to deliver the final blow and send me limping back to the district, but she seems ashamed to even be thinking of it at all.

"Hurt you?" I finish for her. I don't mean it as a challenge, but she seems to interpret it that way, because she glares at me and darts her eyes away from mine.

Now I feel guilty for snapping at her, for kicking her when she's already down. She doesn't have to say it—I can tell by the twisted look on her face that she doesn't want to believe what Haymitch told her. That she wants to trust me, but can't find the strength to do it. Accusing her of being duplicitous hasn't helped my case. I take a different approach, a softer tone. "Look, Katniss, I can't say that I haven't had my doubts about you. But I can tell you with total certainty that I don't want to hurt you." She keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. "I _won't_ hurt you."

"Oh, really?" she mumbles. "You've got that much self-control?"

"Yes, I do." And it's true—no matter how much she manages to piss me off, I could never bring myself to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until she was lifeless on the ground. The memory of that attempt, as hazy and confusing as it is, is enough to reduce me to a shivering heap on my kitchen floor. "I don't always trust you. Whatever. It hasn't stopped me from hanging out with you every single day, has it?"

She lifts her eyes to mine, looking more guilty than angry at this point. "No, I guess not." Now that everything is out in the open, she stops chewing her nails, which by this point must be ragged and sore. She sighs heavily, reaches back to tighten her loose braid. "Listen, it's not that I don't want to believe you, Peeta. I do." Her eyes darken even as she says it: not a very encouraging sign. "But I just need some time to deal with this."

_Deal with _what_? _I wish that I could grab her by the shoulders and yell these words. _Deal with the fact that you let me slip out of your sight that last night in the arena, sending me directly into Snow's clutches? Or the fact that I'm damaged? Not the boy that you met six and a half years ago who was so shy and innocent, but rather a broken man?_ All things that I wish I could say to her, to make her understand that things can't be the way they used to be. She needs to realize that I'm not the stoic, stable one in this dynamic.

But she's had enough emotional turmoil for one day, and forcing her to recognize the harsh reality of our situation, while critical, seems insensitive. So I swallow hard and give her an inauthentic thin-lipped smile. "Okay."

Katniss exhales and dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand. She still looks disheveled, flustered, but it won't do any good to point it out. "We'll pick this up at home?" she asks as lightly as she can. I stare at her in silence for a few moments, disbelieving. _Home?_ She can't be serious, referring to that cold mansion as our home. _Our_ home. A ludicrous thought, considering that she basically admitted that she can't trust me not to kill her, and now she's insinuating that we share a life together. Too many mixed signals.

"Uh, sure." I push myself to my feet. The instinct to run is overpowering, but I've nowhere to run to. All I know is that I have to get out of here. "Think I'll walk through the square, see if the markets are up and running yet." I don't offer for her to join me, and I can't tell if the look on her face is because I mentioned the square and, indirectly, all its ghosts, or because I'm edging away from her. "I'll drop by later, okay?"

Katniss nods. "All right." The words are heavy, and even as I nod at her and turn away, I can't help but think that every inch of her seems infused with heaviness. Like if she just stopped trying one day, she'd let the earth open up beneath her and fall through.

These are dark thoughts, but a simple shake of my head isn't enough to clear it. Furious blinking isn't enough to push the tears away.

Perhaps if the ground opened up beneath my feet tomorrow, or next week, or even right this second, I wouldn't care if I fell through, either.


End file.
